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A POEM 



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TROY, N. Y. : 

WM. H. YOUNG & BLAKE. 
1874. 






Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1874, 
by Wm. H. Young & Blake, in the office of the Librarian of 
Congress at Washington. 



^0 i)^t Plemorg 
of 

Pg lister. 



PREFACE. 



This poem, with the exception only of a little of the 
last part, was written while I was yet under twenty 
years of age, and it was finished shortly after the com- 
pletion of my twentieth year. I feel, therefore, that I 
must ask encouragement rather than hope to please. 

I desire, also, to make two formal acknowledge- 
ments : first, to Mr. F. J, Parmenter for his early 
encouragement and kindness even more than for his 
valuable assistance during the process of publication ; 
and, secondly, to one whose generous criticism has not, 
I hope, been ill appreciated, but whose name I have no 
right to connect with my rhymes. 

The order, to which I have here given the more 

metrical name of the " Sisters of the Tomb," is one of 

the most beautiful institutions of the Church of Rome 

and is called the " Sisters of the Visitation." 

T. G. 
Oak lands. May 14th, 1874. 



BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW. 



Part I, 
Part II, 
Part III, 
Part IV, 



The Nun at the Shrine. 
The Deserted Home. 
At the Death-Bed. 
Nunc Dimittis. 



THE BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW. 



Part I. 
THE NUN AT THE SHRINE. 
I. 
'Tvvas autumn, and an autumn's sun 

Had dyed with many a golden ray 
The leaves that floated one by one 

Adown the mellow sunset spray ; 
The Thousand Isles, in placid rest. 

Bathed at the stream their j^ebbled feet ; 
As infant's hand on mother's breast 

The murm'ring waters 'gainst them beat. 
The birds had ceased their happy cries 
And seemed to gaze with loving eyes 
Upon the transient hues, that fade 
When Winter's step steals through the glade. 
Amongst her. sisters one small isle 
Seemed youngest and its beauteous smile, 
Bright with the freshness of the day, 
Shared in the waters' gentle play. 
Back from the bound'ry, where the trees 
Caught in their tops the dying breeze, 



Neglected, stood a marble shrine, 
Masked by a wreathing ivy vine; 
And, whether placed by Nature's hand 
Or beauty by devotion planned, 
Upwards and downwards there it grew 
Till faint as Heaven shining through 
The ritual of Romish pride 
The marble met the eventide. 
A cross, indeed, once capped the stone, 

But, fallen to the earth 
Since Nature marked the spot her own, 
The wood-moss on its sides had grown 

And shown its humble birth. 
Once round it rang the orisons 
Of many priests and mighty ones. 
And virtue still was said to rise 
From it, when virtue's glad surprise 
Heard the unfrequent laudate tones 
As some strange worshipper should share 
With nature's supplicants a prayer. 

n. 

Such was the hour and such the scene 
When, glancing the bright boughs between, 
With veil uplifted from her face, 
A nun gazed on the holy place. 



9 

Her brow was smooth, her cheek was fair 
And youth and love had painted there 
The bkish that tells a maiden's heart 
Hath secret causance for its start. 
It was a modest, startled blush — 
Half-pale a part, a part half-flush. 
But pale and flush both mingling o'er 
The fairest skin that nun e'er wore ; 
And where it died it scarcely died 
Away, but rather seemed to hide. 
And lingering 'neath the whitest skin. 
It blushed without and burned within. 
Meek tho' her glance, and downward turned. 
More than religion in it burned 
As though it asked her God to take 
"Her love — but for a softer sake 
Where youth hath borrowed from devotion 
A tender mask for its emotion. 
Devotion steals affection's charm. 
And sways the heart with virtue's arm. 



HL 

And now the tears are gathering in her eye, 
And under the coarse sack-cloth heaves her 
breast 



As with the stubborn pow'r of love's deep 
sigh :— 
She kneels — her brow is to the marble press- 
Her pale lips quiver into broken prayer [ed; 
That welleth up from fountains secret-sealed, 
Emotion trembles into dulcet air 

Till all her virgin purpose is revealed ; 
But sobs burst forth, and moves the glowing 
form 
And the fair fingers twine their fragile 
threads 
Within each other, and the breath so warm 

Congealing dew drops on the marble sheds — 
Pure as the tears, that wander from her eyes 
Rather than drop ; or on the long, dark lid 
Dwell with a fond delight that grief belies 
And kissing, fall but when the glance is 
hid. 

IV. 

" Humbled at thy sacred shrine 
Where mine ancestors have prayed 

In a long, unbroken line, 

Mary, Mother all divine, 
I an aching heart have laid. 

It is not that mv heart rebels 



Against one promise 1 have made ; 
It is not that my conscience tells 

That I would have one vow unsaid ; 
But, like the tone of silver bells, 

The past o'ercomes me when it swells : 
And many things I have to say, 
And many prayers have I to pray ; 
But, for confession, mortal ear 
Is fitting not my tale to hear. 
The sisters of my holy vow 

Are dead to earth and dead to me — 
r have not one assistant now 

Save only Thee. 
I hoped that they would share my woes 
And soothe the pangs of studied throes, 
■But every nun that wears our veil 
Hath, though forgotten, such a tale ; 
And if they heard my broken plaint 
Each heart would throb, each sense grow 
With all the joys they threw away, [faint 

Or buried here for slow decay. 
My early love, but late forsworn. 
As Mother-Saint thou wilt not scorn ; 
To thee alone can I confide 
The hopes that have forever died — 
Consign them only to thy keeping 



Through this Ufe of loveless weeping, 
And pray thee for their safe return 
Beyond the Shadow and the Urn. 

V. 

" The first fond memories that come 
From that dead past which is not dumb 
Replace my mother's hand in mine 
And give mine ear her voice divine. 
Then years fly by, far swifter than 
In childhood's happy round they ran ; 
Beside me stands the handsome boy 
Who gave my very girlhood joy. 
Again his boyish face and form — 

Again his manly grace I see ; 
Again I feel the pressure warm, 

Again he smiles — and smiles on me ! 
Ah, boyish face, can mem'ry tell 
How long I loved thee, and how well } 
How long thine image I adored 
And unto thee my spirit poured 
(As only loving woman can) 
And in the boyhood loved the man ! 
Lo, when he came — to manhood grown— 
And whispered me his loved, his own, 
How gladly lea})ed I to his arms 



And clung to wrap me in his charms ! 
The l)iirning kiss — the loving clasj) — 
The welcome fond — the parting grasp — 
How each returns and each in vain ; 
They do not soothe, they cannot pain ! 
But, Mother, mem'ry cannot sin ; 
My heart is pure — ah, look within 
And say if it hath one intent 
To win them back, though it lament ! 
Another is his wife, and she 
Hath only love and prayer from me, 
Yet o'er the past her wandering wing 
In vain the present strives to fling. 
We loved ; he was mine own ; and he 
Owes one poor privilege to me — 
That I may think of life when bright ; 
And, wronging none, I keep that right. 
He is not what he was and now 

He could not be what he hath been. 
But ne'er a power — not e'en my vow — 

Can make that pure, sweet past a sin. 
'T is only by the whisp'ring tongue 
That gathers poisons from among 
The withered flowers the past doth store. 
That man defiles the fame of Yore — 

The purest deeds 



And virtue's seeds 
May poison by the telling o'er. 
I call them back, but not to blame him 

That I'm not with him to-day; 
Woman's wile at last o'ercame him, 
But she triumphed not: — defame him? 

She could but betray ! 
She was beautiful, and far, 

Far more beautiful than I ; 
Mine the beauty of the star. 

Hers the splendor of the sky. 
Lies are painful, pois'nous things — 
E'en detected they have stings — 
And she wove them till, in sooth, 
Truth seemed lie and falsehood truth. 
Thus I fell from his esteem — 
Fell, our love a broken dream. 
Still he loved me ! It had seemed 
Incest to him had he dreamed 
Of loving her who had undone 
Trust and trusting, both in one. 

VI. 

" Had he lingered longer thus 
Fortune might have smiled on us, 
For to me he would have turned 



15 

When his wrath itself ()utl)urncd, 
And my truth he would ha\ e learned; 
But too soon he met a lass 

Fair and young, with light hair curling 
Like a patent dreaminess 

Round the face whose lips were purling, 
Purling ever, like a brook 
From its sweet secluded nook. 
And her fresh face, where her heart 
Shone without the mask of art. 
Fixed his fierce and restless mind 
Half by contrast. He grew^ kind ; 
Then he lingered, gladly pleased 
By the charms his pain that eased ; 
And, still willing to find pleasure. 
Tuned him to the joyful measure 
Of her tones, while music rang 
Whether she conversed or sang v 

In the portals of an ear 
That listened best when she was near. 
Soon he thought he loved her, and 
Stormed her heart to steal her hand ; 
But he know^s not wdiither fled 
The wTetched maid he should have wed ; 
Knows not, and he shall not know- 
Till life's ending ends my woe. 



i6 

He hath learned to love ere this 

Her who claimed his nuptial kiss ; 

And wilt thou, O mother, keeping 

Every cause for pain or weeping 

From their lives, watch o'er their sleeping 

May he grow in love for her 

And forget what once we were ! 



VH. 

" Mary, not that coals be shed ' 

On my poor undoer's head, \ 

Rises this my humble prayer ; 

That thou over her should 'st care. \ 

1 forgive her — and if / j 

Why not thou, O Virgin, why ? \ 

Save the life thus ill beginning ; 
And reclaim her from her sinning; 

Lead her to the Heavenly Throne \ 

In a glory all thine own. ' 

And for her, this side the grave, j 

Blessings, years and love I crave ; \ 
May her babes — if with them blessed — 
Nurse infant kindness to her breast ; 
May her husband o'er her sod 
Bow to mem'rv — and to God. 



17 

And still with heart to love the past 
Cry, " Lord, Thy will be, first and last ! " 

VIII. 

Forgiving prayer had soothed her pain, 
But tears too soon burst forth again. 
The hands unclasped to bless another 
Close quick and tight her grief to smother. 
And yet the sobs are soft and low, 
With more of sadness than of woe ; 
And as the tears flow more and more 
The storm of sobs drift slowly o'er. 
Ah ! those who think the hearts are dead 

That beat beneath the formal veil. 
Know not each humble, weary head. 
Reposing on the scanty bed, 
Through many a night hot tears hath shed 

While telling o'er to self its tale. 
That pulse, which moves as with the wheel 

Of time, hath oft another motion. 
From secret spring or sudden reel 

Of frenzied, though suppressed emotion. 
The dust which years have left unstirred 

Needs little brushing to reveal 
The saint who scorned, the weak who erred, 

Or lorn, lost love those robes conceal. 

2 



It may be charity to think 

Those breasts have lost their sense of woe, 
But many a mourning soul would shrink 

The fearful pangs 'tis theirs to know ; 
For they are buried, but their hearts 

Oft live without the prison wall, 
And many a prayer to God imparts 
The fearful truth that Romish arts 

The flesh — but not the soul — may thrall. 

IX. 
And thus, the tears and trembling gone, 

The sobbing all passed o'er, 
The prayer of the forsaken one 

Is on her lips once more. 
." One other prayer my heart would make ; 

That ere his eye in death grow dim 
And ere his soul its flight shall take 

He learn my truth to trust and him. 
'Tis true, however sweet my vow 
'Twould not be mine were life not now 
Despoiled of all it hoped and sought, 
Yea, life's best boon — its wealth of thought ! 
And now my course may be a sin 
To flee the world God placed me in ; 
He made in me a woman's heart 



That yearned to play the mother's part, 
And longed to see my loved one's grace 
Recopied in mine infant's face — 
Recopied still, but blent with mine 
In harmony, by hand divine — 
Th' incorporation of the souls 
Whose dual life one love controls, 
A poetry no pen can write, 
The poetry of sense and sight. 
And if, when of that thought bereft, 
I sought not with what hope was left 
To build a future of content 
With man for its embellishment. 
Why deem that sin the action moved 
That saved me from a life unloved ? 

X. 

" When each fond memory of yore 

Shall vanish to return no more 

Or when that lost love, scarce grown dim 

With age, shall wake no thought in him 

Rebellious to the love of life — 

Sworn, granted, wedded to his wife — 

Then may he know that not in vain 

He trusted ; may he feel no pain 

To think what I have suffered, though 



He bless that faith which ends in woe. 
I'hus, shrouded by the holy name, 
A love remains — but not the same — 
I ask but justice from his mind, 
Till now so loved, till now so kind ; 
That he may know he wrongly deemed 
Of one who ne'er of falsehood dreamed. 
Thus, Nevylle's name again I take 
Upon my lips for love's sweet sake. 
And on my lips that name now dies 
Until we meet 'neath brighter skies 
Than earth's. But if in Paradise 
His soul shall speak to mine and say. 
That dark deception passed away 
Before the grave entombed his form. 
While life was bright and love was warm- 
To me with that, thy promise, cheered 
No path is dark, no fate is feared. 

XL 

" And child-like Edith — ah, may she 
Have ne'er a cause for pain in me 
Or in that love that late was mine. 

Sweet child of loveliness — O saint. 
On other mortal face than thine 

If e'er thy semblance God did paint 



21 

'Tis hers that bears the cast divine. 

The spirit laughing on the lips 

The soul that with her accents slips 

From hers into each other heart — 

Say are they all thine own, or part ? 

The modest, gentle, bright blue eye ; 

Her soft, m.elodious, touching sigh ; 

Her small white hand whose touch is light 

As breezes of a summer night ; 

Her blush of joyous, healthful pink — 

All these may well forbid him think 

Of one who faded from his life 

To leave him Edith as his wife. 

xn. 

" And Thou, O Lord of woe and weal. 
Vouchsafe each, every wound to heal 

Of husband and of mate ; 
But for myself, I ask thine aid 
And comfort in my hope betrayed 

And patience still to wait 
That sweet reward of after time. 
Which comes when purged from sin and crime, 

And Cometh not too late." 



2 2 

XIII. 

She stooped and kissed the cold, white stone 

Nor kissed it once and once alone ; 

She rose, she stooped again, she wept ; 

Then rather from the spot she crept 

Than walked. Her footfall ling'ring dwelt 

As if she less perceived than felt 

That she was passing from the place. 

Anon she stopped and glanced a space 

Behind, until among the trees 

She lost the shrine and heard the breeze ; 

Then sinking o'er the western hill 

She saw the sun. A moment still 

She stood and raised her finger till 

It dwelt upon her lips as though 

Admonishing the water's flow 

To still its music and attend 

To voices on the whisp'ring wind — 

Or was it done to hush the tone 

Of voices in her heart alone } 

Upon her lips the trembling sigh 

Still softly rose as soft to die. 

And was she pond'ring on her way^ 

Or fearful of the dying day .? 

Nay, nay ; her eyes, beyond the skies, 

Were building up a Paradise ; 



The dreamy gaze that in them shone 
Was picturing the love now flown. 
Far in the deep intensity 
Of heaven's pure immensity 
She pictured scenes that long ago 
She saw and knew and loved to know. 
Ah, how will nature backward turn 
To hearts that beat and loves that burn 
In memory, (if there alone,) 
And hopes that are no longer known. 
The twilight from behind the hills 
Steals softly to her heart, and fills 
Her being with that sweet repose 
Of heav'n which seldom mortal knows ; 
Existence seems suspended here 
And shifted to some far off sphere 
Behind the purple and the gold 
Of heaven's banneret unrolled. 

XIV. 

Is her heart softly beating as other hearts beat ? 
Are her thoughts in the hour for other hearts 

mete ? 
Yes, mete ; but O who can resolve and decide 
What infinite sense of her spirit hath dried 
The tear which now falls not, or hushed the 

sad heart 



24 

That seems from her soul in her transport to 

part ? 
What eye can now follow exactly the path 
And behold the same sights which her clear 

vision hath 
In this moment beheld, or what writer can read 
The writing revealed unto her in her need 
Of an heavenly succor ? To some souls is 

given 
The power to read all the scripture of heaven, 
But the time and the manner are not of our 

choice ; 
God wills with His will and He speaks with 

His voice ; 
And 'tis ours if we hear to obey, with no word 
Of all that the spirit from Spirit hath heard. 
When from that communion she turned her 

at length 
On her brow shone the halo of heavenly 

strength 
For her struggle. She passed swiftly down to 

the shore. 
Pushed out from the sand and the river sped 

o'er 
In a light barken shallop, which cut through 

the wave 



25 

Like the angel of light when he cometh to 

save ; 
Two ripples of glory shot out from the bow 
Like the smiles of the angel recording her 

vow. 
In that converse of spirit a change o'er her 

passed, 
And the sore troubled bosom was tranquil at 

last. 
And far through the shade of the gathering 

night 
Still broke on the vision those ripples of light, 
As reflected from some unseen source in the 

sky, 
Or shot from the depths of the Guardian Eye, 
Still marking her way. When the shallop 

stood still 
Underneath the grey convent concealed by 

the hill 
And its fostering shadow, the evening begun 
To illumine the heavens. Farewell to the nun. 



THE BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW. 



Part II. 
THE DESERTED HOME. 

I. 

By the spectre shadows dark'ning still 
The evening seeks the eastern hill 
And, slow descending to the vale, 
Pervades the landscape, wan and pale. 
The stars, as wak'ning from a dream. 

From heaven peep uncertain forth ; 
A trembling, weak and changeful beam 

Of love from each descends to earth ; 
The sunset clouds are gone from sight 
And day hath faded into night. 
And where the cottage light burns low, 
In measured music, soft and slow, 
The vesper hymnal's monotone 
Dies in the silence, heard by none 
Except the singer's household small 
And the resounding, barren wall. 



27 

The night bird hath not spread its wing, 

And through the air no noxious thing 

Of evil augury or mien 

Flits ominous, unheard, unseen. 

And as the mantle spreads above 

All cares are melted into love. 

The crescent moon, with silver smile, 

Sails up the silent arc of space 
And seeks amid the stars, the while. 

To hide its modest, melting grace. 
And down from vaulting and from dome 
Descends the peace of rest and home. 

II. 

Descends, but not with equal flight, 

The boon of nature and of night. 

With heaving breast — with hurried tread — ■ 

With eye which, searching, seems to dread 

The learning of its easeless range — 

With brow o'er which comes change on 

change — 
With hands not clasped as in despair. 
But clinched as if all woe was there — - 
Turns and returns his gloomy hall 
(The scene but late of beauty's thrall) 
The wifeless husband. Him no more 



28 

A soft smile meeteth at the door — • 
No golden hair upon his shoulder 
Rests, as love grows softer, bolder; 
No little hand rests on his arm — 
Upon his cheek no breathing warm 
With faintly varying cadence tells 
The kindred heart that sinks and swells. 
His life hath ne'er a sovereign now, 
No smile his lip — no hope his brow ; 
And e'en his voice hath lost the tone 
Of sweetness known to her alone : — 
To her alone since first his ire 
Waked the torturing fever-fire 
Of dark remorse, that slumb'ring burned 
To rise before howe'er he turned 
To save him from its ceaseless flame 

And told him by its angry smart 
He was a husband but in name 

And that no wife possessed his heart. 

HI. 

And she had seen — that wretched maid 
Whom he had made his wedded wife — 

That while a cold respect he paid 
To her, another ruled his life. 

Not hers the fault, she loved him well — 



29 

Too well to rest beside his form 
And see his breast for another swell — 

The sigh with another's name was warm. 
Ah, blame her not too rashly yet ! 
Fore'er her sun of hope seemed set 
And over her sky the clouds grew dun 
And her stars passed slowly, one by one, 
Out of her vision — into the night 
Which closed on her hungry, vacant sight. 
No sympathy came from the man whose bed 
Was graced by the woman's queenly head 
And she looked abroad, without, above. 
For a woman's mete and a manly love. 
There came to their board at length a guest 
Who loved her better than all the rest. 
For he saw in the droop of her soft blue eye 
The sense of a tear though the drop was dry ; 
He saw in the curl of her queenly lip 

A stern despite of her woman's heart — 
An angry pity — as if the grip 

Of some sorrow chilled her childish art. 
And slow to her secret the stranger stole — 
There into her heart — then into her soul — 
And then in the gush of her love's young 

dream 
She guiltily floated along the stream. 



30 

So swift her barque and so light the oar, 
She scarcely noted her length from shore 
Until she had gone beyond recover 
And bound herself to her sinful lover. 
Ah, 'twere a sight for the good to see, 
The blush of a sin's first misery — 
How bright it breaks o'er the waxen skin. 
Like the dawn of a love long hid within — 
How faintly fused with the fair white neck. 
That fatal sign of the spirit's wreck ! 
For all that beauty is base, I ween, 
And forever flies when once is seen. 

IV. 

And over the brow of the frail young wife — 

Over the white of her heaving breast — 
Had passed the storm of that bitter strife 

Which left her shame — her sin — confessed. 
It were no sight to tell — she stood 
In the charms of her matchless womanhood. 
Her head drooped down o'er the zones of snow 
That pulsed 'neath her guilty love and woe. j 
Half-hung she back, from time to tide \ 

The face of the faithless, tainted bride — 1 

Half-sought to weep on his bosom strong ! 

Her woman's heart and her woman's wrong; 



31 

But she could not weep for she felt that now 
She was the bride of a broken vow. 

V. 

No sooner came her grief and pain — 
Her longing to be pure again — 
Than she resolved her home to fly, 
And distant dwell and distant die. 
Then he who had betrayed the wife 
Assumed the keeping of her life 
And gave her in exchange for fame 
The means of living. But the name 
Which guards alone a woman's rest 
Was wanting — nor could he supply 
The vacant mind, the wand'ring eye, 
The love-lorn craving of her breast. 
And thus she fled, the child of gloom — 
Her life a blank — her hope the tomb — 
And what for her a fitting bed 
Save that which shrouds and shields the dead ? 
But vainly strove her fleeting smile 
To thank him for his care, the while ; 
For as she fled she left behind 
All joy, all love, all peace of mind. 



32 

VI. 

And he, the husband, from afar 

Returns to rest from the fatigue 
Of public toil and wordy war, 

Where peace and love together league. 
To quiet wedded is his mind 
And each emotion grows more kind; 
But, as he gains his home more near, 
Wakes a sudden sense of fear ; 
And a dread, still half unknown. 
Forces from his lips a groan. 
Calamity hath oft a pow'r 
To tell or to foretell its hour. 
And miles away we hear the call 
Which flings o'er mirth a sudden pall. 
The porch to which her steps e'er sprung 

To glad him with a woman's kiss 
Was silent — e'en the lamps that hung 
In doleful sadness slowly swung 

Through dark, unlighted gloominess. 
With hurried step he treads the floor 
But falters as he nears the door. 
Where custom taught the wife to wait 
Th' expected coming of her mate. 
When stayed beyond its wonted time ; 
And with the stealthy hand of crime 



33 

He touches but not springs the lock, 

His trembling hands refuse to knock. 

And like detected vice he reels 

But thinks not, hopes not — he but feels. 

So silent all, without, within, 

His pulse in contrast seems a din ; 

And thrice his struggles fail before 

The bolt revolves and turns the door. 

The rays that light the spacious hall 

But dimly enter, if at all, 

And 'round the borders of the room 

A shadow dwells as 'round the tomb. 

Full long he ponders, doubting half 

What sounds are ringing in his ears, 
And if it be the fiendish laugh 

Of Momus jeering at his fears ; 
He looks and thinks to see the face 
In all its sireless lack of grace 
Fresh springing from the womb of night 
And, failing, doubts he sees aright. 

VII. 

Far through the gloom a shimmering 
Faint draws the outlines of a door 

Upon the night — a glimmering 
As of a taper. Hope once more 
3 



34 

Springs up within his sinking heart 
That sickens in its joyful start. 
Across the floor his hurried tread 
With desp'rate firmness now is sped; 
No falt'ring now for hope supplies 
The strength far spent in agonies, 
But in the flood of sudden light 
New cause he finds to curse his sight. 
The room is empty, woman's form 
Not there, though there her pillow warm- 
Warm with the damp of sorrow's dew 
Late fallen from her eyes of blue ; 
For there before her flight from home. 
By sadness and by love o'ercome, 
She bowed her head in one pure prayer 
For strength in him his woe to bear, 

VIII. 

"So fades the dream of life," he said, 
And sank, though conscious, on her bed 
For hours he lay and if he felt 
No voice upon his anguish dwelt. 
And if he wept his burning eye 
Consumed the drop, the lid was dry. 
No word escaped him as he lay. 
Nor moved he till the break of day ; 



35 

He marked not how the taper burned, 

Or minutes into hours turned ; 

He knew not if he slept or dreamed 

But what an age that night-watch seemed ! 

And 'twas not till with noisy clang 

The old awak'ning echoes rang, 

And till the household waked from sleep, 

He felt him back to living creep ; 

And then it was not till the maid 

With softly simpering accents prayed 

Admittance to her morning task 

That he bethought the time to ask. 

With shriek to hear such voice reply 

To her accustomed inquiry, 

The handmaid fled to tell the rest 

Of ghosts, and have her sins confessed. 

Then mem'ry from suspended sway 

Returned and he beheld the day, 

But blushed to think the menials' tale 

Of that stern truth he could not veil ; 

And as he came, unheard, unknown. 

To find his bird of promise flown. 

He silently forsook the bed 

And to his own apartment sped. 



36 

IX. 

And Nevylle starts before his glass 
To see the phantom o'er it pass — 
A shadow of what yesterday 
He deemed himself — and well he may ! 
His startled glance, his gloomy brow, 
Have lost — he knoweth why, not how — 
The cheer, the frankness and the pride 
Once in them; and the locks that- hide 
That massive forehead and its woe 
Have just a sprinkling now of snow. 
And silver threads which were not there 
Have frosted what before was fair. 

X. 

All this has passed, and weeks beside 

Have sadly changed the haughty lord ; 
The mind which many a foe defied 
Hath yielded of its own accord ; 
And now, the captive of his sorrow. 
He heeds no night and hails no morrow ; 
But oft the cloud upon his brow 
Grows darker than his lot is now. 
And he hath learned to wear the chains 
His frail wife forged and bear the pains 
She left to prey upon his frame. 



37 

And toils no more for wealth or fame. 
But one sad thought fills up the measure 

Time hath fixed for all his sense, 
He shuns no grief and seeks no pleasure- 
Mourns, but follows not his treasure — 

Who can find lost innocence ? 

XI. 

So gently fall the shades of night 
He deems them but the fault of sight, 
And now he starts and talks to air — 
Sole confidant of his despair — 
" O may I never see her face ! 
The melting smile, the modest grace — 
Forever fled, forever dead — 
I ne'er can bring them back again, 
Let mem'ry be the only pain. 
I knew not how I loved her — she 
Knew less how she was loved by me, 
But had she staid the truth to know 
All time should into transport flow ; 
And had I learned it ere I lost. 
Her love had thawed my bosom's frost. 
My coldness — not affection's want. 
But the derangement of a heart 
Which steels itself against the taunt 



38 

Of phantoms that its alleys haunt — 

Was of my very love a part ; 
For had I been less cold to life 

And all things living except her, 
Affection would have lost the strife 

And love would long for things that were. 
But now — too late for retrospection, 
A madd'ning, bitter recollection — 
The past dies out ; the future — blank ! 
The present with its poisons rank 
Debauches pow'r to serve my kind 
And barren leaves both heart and mind." 

XII. 
A knock comes softly at his door; 

He starts to hear a woman's voice — 
A voice which he hath heard before 
Or thinks he hath — in days of yore. 

Those accents sure were once his choice 
Of all whose music woman owns. 
They chill him to his very bones ! 
So changed they seem — and yet the same — 
He dares not give the sounds a name. 
Can it be she, the false, returned — 
Her charms despised, her beauty spurned ? 
And how shall he, weak, tortured man, 



39 

Her charms without compassion scan ? 

The hot blood flows upon his brain 

Until he groans aloud from pain, 

And twice he strives to speak, but fails, 

So long the fearful pang prevails. 

It must be she, for he forbade 

Each frightened menial to invade 

The silence of that chamber, where 

He built a temple to despair. 

That voice so strangely moves his soul 

It swells without, beyond control. 

XIII. 
" A Sister of the Tomb would ask 
Admittance to perform a task " — 
Again he hears those accents ring 
But now nor pain nor joy they bring ; 
It cannot be — his mind, o'erstrung. 
To false conclusion must have sprung. 
However strongly he believed 
He quickly owns himself deceived 
And softly answers " Enter here 
Whatever brings or balm or bier, 
And if thy summons comes for me 
Thrice welcome shall thy mission be." 



40 
XIV. 

The Sister entered : in the room 

No light relieved its awful gloom 

And she was startled it would seem 

So sudden leaned she on the beam — 

Heavily leaned she 'gainst the door 

And almost sank upon the floor. 

Her veil was folded back, with art 

To hide, yet left her eyes a part 

From whence they wandered to the form 

Of him who shook beneath the storm 

That late broke o'er him. Nevylle soon 

His face upraised to ask her boon, 

But started and his glance expressed 

What dread new swelled within his breast ; 

And each upon the other gazed, 

As silent each as each amazed. 

His dark eye scanned the sable shroud ; 

His head he raised — his glance grew proud ; 

Some curving of the slender mould — 

The form, the eyes, the mantle's fold — 

Or was it something further back 

On mem'ry's beaten, blotted track — 

An indistinct, a ghostly thought — 

Fierce, fleeting, faded, but not caught — 

That roused the feeling late repressed ? 



And his suspicious glance professed 

The query of her strange intent. 

The stranger's eyes, upon him bent, 

Seemed making every pencilled line 

Of form, or face, or feature fine ; 

She seemed to watch each fleeting thought 

Pass o'er his face where each was wrought, 

And o'er his brow his palm he pressed 

As if he would conceal the rest. 

Thus masking with his trembling hand 

His mind, his husky tones demand 

What would she here 1 from whence she came .'' 

And what her mission } and — her name } 

XV. 

" There is a Sisterhood, of whom 

The right to tend those near the tomb ; 

And, if it be within their pow'r 

They soothe and glad the dying hour. 

I have a mission from the grave. 

And one poor boon of thee to crave. 

The lines I bear may tell the tale 

So sanctioned by my serge and veil." 

Too slight, too tall that floating form. 

Too deep her voice, her glance too warm 

For Edith's having ; but no wave 



42 

Of all that shrouded cast but gave 
Familiar somethings to his mind, 
Emotions vague and ill-defined. 
She speaks and gives him what appears 
A page o'erblotted fresh with tears, 
And vain he strives to strike the light 
Which must reveal the truth at sight, 
But crushes in his palm the sheet 
As if the nails with flesh would meet. 
The loosened veil falls all around 
The nun — at last the light is found. 
'Tis Edith's ! — hers the failing pen 
That wrote the fearful words. Again 
He sinks and now his dark'ning eye 
Bedews the words which scarce are dry. 
He only knows they come too late 
To save or change his awful fate. 
And then the soul of injured man 
Forbids his tears and bids him scan 
The writing coldly, nor forget — 
Though she was dear — his wrongs live yet. 
His wrongs 1 — yes, they alone now live — 
He doubts 'tis right he should forgive. 



43 
XVI. 

Edith's Letter. 

All my life is nearly spent, 
All my sins in one are blent ; 
From my soul escapes one cry — 
Love, forgive me ere I die. 

Well I know the right is lost, 
Error — yes, and crime — the cost, 
Which was mine to link thy name 
With my fortune and my fame. 

But for those bright days of yore 
Let me hear thy voice once more, 
Though I hear it but in blame — 
Call me by the once loved name ! 

Let the lips where mine have clung- 
Let those arms whereon I hung — 
Their last office now perform 
On my swiftly sinking form. 

Hear the love you did not prize, 
Look once more on these blue eyes 
And if then thou still canst hate — 
God's forgiveness comes too late. 



44 

XVII. 

His blanching cheek but flashing eye, 

His drooping head but clouded brow, 
Half make her hope his kind reply ; 

But chase the fond reliance now. 
And more than once he starts to speak 

And more than once his head he lifts, 
The tears bedew his manly cheek 

But many a gleam of hatred drifts 
Into his eyes, though hate be weak. 
At length he turns all white and pale 
To her who shrinks beneath the veil. 
" No, never!" thus he speaks, "my life 
She poisoned — and to call her wife — 
To clasp, e'en dying, in my arms 
Her cursed though surpassing charms 
And perjure self to save her soul 
By saying I forgive the whole — 
No, never ! 'Tis not in my heart 
To pardon or forget a part. 
My lordly name, my place on earth, 
My very pride of noble birth 
She crushed : the meanest serf that toils 
In safety, shudders and recoils 
From such a life as mine is now 
And smiles upon his wife, whose vow 



45 

Remains unbroken — pities me 

If once my sudden age he see ! 

I said my name, my pride she crushed — 

She trampled them among the dust — 

She spat upon me and my race 

And flung the insult in my face. 

And you, who have espoused her cause 

Through license of your saintly laws, 

Go forth — and never darken more. 

For such a plaint, my darkened door. — 

But hold !" he falters, as the nun 

Shrinks back, her hasty flight begun, 

" If I can add by purse or pow'r. 

One comfort to her dying hour 

So much I would. Where shall we find 

This — wife ! so loving, pure and kind .''" 

XVIII. 

The Sister paused and glanced around 

As if to circumscribe the sound 

Which she should utter. Then once more 

Drew nearer from the open door. 

" I would not have her dwelling known 

To any save yourself alone." 

She softly whispers in his ears 

Then drops her veil and — disappears. 



46 

XIX. 

In vain his voice — his piercing call 
Goes down the wide, resounding hall 
The nun is fled, the time is past, 
Hath Fate her latest hazard fast ? 



THE BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW. 

Part III. 
AT THE DEATH-BED. 

I. 

I wrote that Edith when she fled 
Left every sweet sensation dead 
And the tears of deep-toned sadness, 
Rising in her hours of gladness, 
Might have driven both to madness. 
But she strove to press them down — 
Strove her own despair to drown — 
Calm was she when he was by ; 
Or if tears were in her eye. 
With a woman's graceful charm 
She assuaged his fond alarm — 
Laughed, or swept, away the show 
That became her beauty so. 
Hearts there are which will not break 
For their own redemption's sake. 
Hearts there are which cannot bear 
One brief moment of despair ; 



48 

But some hearts, with sadness fraught, 

Nurse and love its very thought. 

And such an heart in Edith's breast 

Would not let her sorrow rest ; 

While her spirit, curbed and bounded, 

On all sides by grief surrounded. 

Preyed upon her fragile frame 

Till at last her sickness came. 

When first she saw the hectic flush 

Tint her cheek with brighter blush. 

Tears of joy in silence flowed 

From her eyes, and pleasure glowed 

On her face like childhood's bloom. 

Thus, she smiled upon the tomb 

While she knew the time was near 

When her crime should disappear 

In the memory of one 

Who, undoing, was undone; 

And when he might mourn the life 

Of his false, self-punished wife, 

And she held a firm belief 

In man's mercy unto grief. 

From the man she had served to the man she 

had wronged 
She fled, and each feeling thereafter belonged 



49 

To the sins of the past. If she thought of 

that one 
Through whom all her sin and her falsehood 

begun 
She thought to forgive ; and she wished to 

forget, 
In the one only hope that was dear to her yet, 
The darkness and danger, the time and the 

tears 
That had withered her life in life's earliest 

years. 
Him, too, would she see ere she closed her 

sad eyes 
On the tumult of earth — saw the peace of the 

skies — 
His hand would she take and his honor would 

ask 
To leave all her sin 'neath the piteous mask. 
Which death should afford; but she could not 

then stay 
For e'en this. She set out on her desolate way 
In the night and the storm, 'midst the wind 

and the rain, 
And sped on her journey through panic and 

pain. 
If voices were born on the keen, bitter blast 



50 

They seemed but to whisper "Haste, haste !" 

as they passed. 
No need ; for the fugutive stopped not to rest 
From the pain of her feet or the pangs of her 

breast, 
She saw but the death-bed where Nevylle 

should weep 
Hot tears of forgiveness and soothe her to 

sleep ; 
She paused not to think this would hasten the 

end — 
She only knew whither that journey would 

tend. 
And e'en had she thought it had gladdened 

her more 
To think that the pang should the sooner be 

o'er. 

n. 

In night she fled and she returned in storm, 
Her blood ran cold where once its course was 

warm, 
Grief sat majestic on her features fair ; 
Youth, beauty, woman's love — not health — 

were there. 
And thus returned she to the town where he, 



51 

Her husband once — but now her judge — 

should be. 
The dark, forsaken suburbs gave her tread 
A dismal echo clothed in silence dread ; 
And yet she traced the cold, deserted street 
With ah ! how weary, yet how willing, feet ! 
Still on she went but wanted no respect, 
None near to gibe if no one to protect ; 
She noted but the darkness all around. 
The total absence of all cheerful sound ; 
But now and then the tell-tale corner lamp 
Shone on her clothing wet, her face so damp. 
No window yields a single ray of cheer 
Or tells one watcher of a kindred fear — 
Yes, one ! She stops — she gazes on that light 
As though her soul depended on the sight ; 
She clasps her hands and leans against the 

walls — 
Groans, deeply breathes, weeps, trembles — all 

but falls. 
There, opposite, a picture — 'tis not one 
That oft we gaze on as life's course is run — 
And God for its unfrequency we thank ! 
A man is gazing on the outer blank — 
A man, lone, weary, wasted and in tears ; 



52 

Torn, writhing, trembling — trembling not with 

fears. 
An instant stands he thus, puts out the lamp 
And flings the casement open to the damp. 
As thus he gazes on the darkened street. 
The moon bursts sudden through the cloudy 

sheet; 
A crouching figure 'neath the opposing wall 
Arrests the glances flashing as they fall, 
But scarce the beam reveals the presence when 
The brightness flies and darkness reigns again. 
He heeded but to murmur " Some poor soul 
Life's byways searching for life's final goal !" 
Nor thought before another night went by 
He might be asked to see that sinner die. 

HI. 

" Thank God ! for the suburbs in safety are 

passed 
And into the city I hurry at last, 
To hide for a while from the sight of my kind 
And then leave but dust for a cofftn behind." 
So she spoke to herself and turned into a lane 
Not known to the proud, to the wealthy, or vain; 
But ah, how familiar to many a wretch 
Who begged for a living and died in a ditch ! 



53 

'Twixt homes that were squalid to one that 

was neat 
She sped on the wings of her small, bleeding 

feet; 
She heeded not whether they pained or were 

sore, 
For she knew that her journey of anguish was 

o'er. 
She sped up the stair and she knocked at the 

door, 
But fainted and fell on the carpetless floor. 
The inmate — once servant and nurse — now 

her host 
First feared the young life which she nourished 

was lost ; 
But when she recovered no long, tearful tale 
Was needed from Edith, the truth to unveil : 
Her story was known, her condition perceived, 
A Father was sent for, her bosom relieved 
Of its terrible burden of falsehood and shame ; 
And from her confession all tranquilly came 
The tears of repentance — the dews of a love 
Which finds for our sinning a mercy above. 
But when he had gone he had sent to his place 
A nun to perform the last office of grace. 
To care for the sinner absolved, and to tend 



54 

That wreck of a life till it drew to its end. 
And strange did it seem to the old nurse's 

mind, 
So loving, so tender, so much more than kind 
The sister had grown in that hour of woe. 
Each flower the climate and season could know 
Was sent by the stranger to gladden Uie bed 
Which each of them knew would be that of 

the dead. 
From morning to night had the Sister remained 
To mark every step which disease had attained 
And under the shadow of night she had left, 
With a note for the husband, forsaken, bereft. 

IV. 

Then Edith had asked and the hostess had 

tried 
To refuse her request for one other beside ; 
In vain, for though dying she could not forget 
That the cup of her misery was not full yet 
Till he, too, had received her forgiveness and 

heard 
His peace from the lips of the woman who 

erred — 
Erred with him. And, persuaded against her 

own mind, 



55 

The woman had gone the destroyer to find. 
Not far the address which the poor, dying 

wife 
Gave the nurse, and a sense of the shortness 

of life 
Gave wings and a will to the servant of yore. 
She found him and told him ; the hour not 

o'er. 
They crept up the stairs and they opened the 

door. 

V. 

The breath of the flowers had scented the air 

That stirred in the room, but a Shadow was 
there — 

A terrible Shadow ! Though dead to the 
sight, 

It came on the wings of the breezes of night ; 

It came and its presence was fearfully felt. 

Though nowhere the visible form of it dwelt. 

They looked, but no shade in the recess re- 
posed, 

The night was without and the casement was 
closed ; 

It swathed not the curtained and motionless 
bed; 



56 

It wrapped not the beautiful, slumbering head ; 
It kissed not those lips and it clasped not that 

hand — 
It hid not away in the rich golden strand 
Of that fair loosened hair — and the white 

bosom heaved 
With the softest of breathings e'er woman 

received. 
It lingered not e'en in the corners — nor hid 
'Neath the sorrowful droop of that white, 

waxen lid ; 
For Edith awak'ning the lid was upraised 
And forth from the orb all her bright spirit 

gazed. 
'Twas the glance of an angel, a beam from the 

sky, 
That shot from the blue of her beautiful eye. 
O, Phantom or Shadow, whatever thou art, 
Thou dwellest alone in the depths of the heart ! 
The man bowed his head as if weakness to 

hide. 
Then sprang from the door and knelt down at 

her side 
And silently buried his face — far too strong 
For the words he would speak swelled the 

sense of her wrong. 



57 



VI. 

She took his nerveless hand in hers 

And raised her smiling face, 
For sleep had wiped away her tears 

And left it naught but grace. 
" I have not one reproach to make, 

As you expect," she said; 
" 'Twas only for your comfort's sake 

I called you to my bed. 
Nay, ask not my forgiveness now, 

'Twas given long ago 
Ere death had paled my childish brow, 

Ere hope gave place to woe. 
I do not ask a single tear 
From thee to grace my early bier, 
I do not summon thy remorse 
To do poor justice to my corse ; 
For tomb, for grave, for shroud, for pall- 
I look to him I wronged for all. 
I summon thee to tell thee here 

That all has been forgiven^ 
No ghost shall wander from its sphere 
To wring from thee an idle tear 

Or turn thy thoughts from Heaven 
Unto the hell that might be thine 



58 

Within thy breast — the cause is flown 
For you created none in mine. 
My wickedness was all mine own. 
And, if to thee I yielded, know 
Not that my chiefest cause for woe 
Though great alone the pang might be 
Awakened by that thought in me. 
Till yester-night I falsely dreamed 
An hell born lie. Poor wretch, I deemed 
Another owned my husband's heart 
And with that base belief a part 
Of all my guilt was born within , 
The evil germ soon sprang to sin. 
Had it been thus I might have died 
And charged the falseness of the bride 
To him who wedded me, to own 
Allegiance at another throne ; 
Yet had I such excuse my crime 
Had tinged the ashen face of time 

As with the blush of maiden shame. 
Why did I sin ? — ah, why does woman 
Ever sin ? — because she's human ! 

I know not how ; a sickness came 
Upon my spirit and — I fell ! 
I could not stay my crime to tell, 
Nor could disguise with pitying power 



59 

Have stolen from remorse one hour. j 

Unthinking, without love for thee I 

And wishing only to be free j 

From those endearments I had cursed, j 

I fled with thee because the first 'I 

To proffer me the means of flight. 

Enough of this ! — 'twas yesternight ' 

I saw my wretched husband standing 

Alone — I should have been beside 
The wreck which seemed itself demanding 

God's vengeance on the faithless bride 
Who shrank and cowered thus to see 
Her handiwork of misery. 

Then, like creation's dawning light ; 

The truth burst sudden on my sight ; | 

He loved me then, he loves me still 

Though I have caused his every ill. ' 

I will not picture thee the face, 
But late the throne of manly grace, 

So changed. Each pencilling of care t 

Was but what I had graven there. [ 

I have forgiven thee — depart 

And leave me with my broken heart. j 

Nay — not one kiss — go, you have heard j 

All, all ; but whatsoe'er the word \ 

My crime to name, 



6o 

Voii should not blame ; 
When speaking of me say — 'She erred.' 

VII. 

He rose. The parting kiss denied, 

To kiss her by a look he tried. 

His eyes with such a yearning dwelt 

Upon her lips so full and warm 
That kisses seemed in air to melt 

And wing them from her glowing form, j^ 
He gazed until her bright eyes turned ^ 

Full on him — so intense their light, 
He shrank beneath them. Though he yearned 

To stay, they forced him from her sight. 
That flashing glance had all that still 
He saw in womanhood — the Will. 

VIII. 

Another hour is gone ; the nun 

Her journey sped, the mission done — 

Returned. And with a calm despair 

The broken heart endured the tale, 
Told with a kind, carressing care. 

The harshness of the truth to veil. 
And Edith with beseeching eyes 
In which the tears all slowly rise 



6i 

And folded hands that choke the sob 
Mhat gushes with each wild heart throb 
Kjazed long, then motioned to her side 
The nun. But vain to speak she tried ; 
For if she spake, so soft and low 
Her voice, it died in speechless woe ; 
Till the nun with a kind and a holy care 
Stooped, kissed her brow and brushed back 

the hair," 
Back from her temples broad and fair — 
Embraced her form and bade her rest 
Her weary head on a weary breast. 

IX. 

And like sisters they talked and like sisters 
they turned 
Back, back to the past that contrasted the 
now. 
Till innocent joy in their warm glances burned 
And memory wiped all the frost from each 
brow. 
Then heart to heart opening revealed the deep 
springs 
Of each being now wandered astray. 
From the courses life's streams should have 
run, to the things 



62 

Which had brought them together to-day. 
They talked of their loves as of things that 
were gone, 
Their sorrows as things that were past, 
Their joys and their blessings as things yet to 
come. 
Their hopes as uniting at last 
In an unconceived future, where He who had 

made 
Should forgive the betrayer and bless the be- 
trayed. 
And then, when that past was retraced and 
re-told. 
The dying one talked of the future of him 
Who, long left behind her, no longer con- 
trolled 
By one thought that should hamper the proud 
or the bold. 
Should sink her in memory, painful but 
dim. 

X. 

" O, sister, he will love again — 
Nay, now he loves another more 

Than I have ever, ever been 

Beloved — he loved her long before. 



1 

63 1 

1 
'Tis sad to think when I am dead I 

Another's child may grace his knee , 

And he, by new caresses led, 
By purer, fresher loving fed. 
May only of my frailty think 
And from that mem'ry tortured shrink — 

From mem'ry as from me : 
And in his child no trace shall live 

Of her he will not now forgive. '■ 

Will he never toy with a golden curl 
And think of the joyous, thoughtless girl ; 

Whose heart he won and who gave that heart 
In exchange for what she deemed a part 
Of a loving care ; while another could claim \ 

The heart which he gave not with his name ?" 

XI. 

Upon the Sister's cheek the flush 

Of feeling deepened to the blush 

Of angry pride. She raised her crest 

And quickly drew away her breast 

From the reposing head which lay 

Soft nestled as the dying day 

Upon the bosom of the West. ! 

But in an instant bowed her head 

To Edith's ear and softly said, ' 

" The object of that love is dead." I 



64 

XII. 

" Dead !" In that syllable a tone 
Had more than triumph's self should own. 
" Dead .?" When once more her accents came 
Nor tone, nor glance, nor speech the same. 
Ah, triumph may a moment stay 

The kindly tide which flows beneath 
A tortured love, but short the play 

Of triumph when 'tis one with death. 

XIII. 

" Yes, dead to him and dead to earth 
And dead to all that gave love birth. 
The veil entombs her. 'Tis her hand 
That soothes thy journey from the land 
Of sin and sinners to the realm . 
Whose glories awe, whose joys o'erwhelm." 
The Sister paused and sudden stole 
To Edith's eyes her grateful soul 
And in that glance there was a joy 
Which had not now one base alloy. 
Her arms extend and Edith grasps 
That kindred form in one long clasp. 
Then faints. When sense returned, a space 
She lingers in that fond embrace 
While her pale lips take up the thread 
Of converse where sensation fled. 



65 
XIV. 

There's a hurry of feet in the rough paved 

way, 
And the sound of a voice. With a strange 

dismay . 
The heart of the dying those accents caught, 
So long unheard, so fondly sought. 
O, husband, haste if you wish to see 
That glance ere it close for eternity ! 
For a change has passed o'er the cheek, and 

the eye 
Is all more dim though the lid be dry. 
The veil which the nun had drawn aside 

She adjusts with a silent dignity, 
Her worldly sympathy to hide. 

And whispers low, " Say naught of me." 
With a childish smile poor Edith turned ; 
No light but love on her features burned ; 
" Oh, joy !" she said, " he hath heard my cry — 
Sweet hope, in my husband's arms to die ! 
For his noble heart will in death forgive 
The sin which could not itself outlive. 
I will call up the days of my radiant youth, 
I will summon bright fancies long faded to 

truth ; 

5 



66 

To aid, by the contrast of present and past, 
The climax of pathos which conquers at last. 

XV. 

She ceased. In the open door there stood 
The judge of her fallen womanhood. 
The lip compressed, the stern gray eye, 

The stately but subdued command 
Of each emotion, and the sigh — 

The frosted hair, through which his hand 
Forgetful strayed, or strayed to wrench 
From agony its violence — 
They seemed to freeze her very sense ; 
While he, too, rested on her form 
His eye so cold but once so warm. 
No trace of crime was written there. 
Nor wrinkled brow, nor beauty's wear ; 
The writing was but death's; and fair 
That very writing of decay, 
So sweetly on her cheek it lay. 
But scarce a moment dare he stand 
And trust him to his own command. 
He sank unbidden on a chair, 
And hid his face from Edith's stare. 



67 

XVI. 

And where were the words which the wife 

should speak ? 
Where were the fancies she should seek ? 
Ah ! fitter than prayer on the penitent's tongue 
The act into which her humility sprung ; 
For forth from the bed she all silently crept, 
Along to his feet — there she sank and she 

wept. 
Oh ! ye who have seen all the transport of woe, 
Indulged by the wretch whom no mercy may 

know 
From the hands of the law save the end of his 

life. 
Can ye measure by this all the grief of that 

wife ? 
He takes not his judgment from him who 

is slain, 
He pleads not his plea and displays not his 

pain 
To the dead that he murdered — beholds not 

the sight 
Of the spirit he cast from its dwelling of might ; 
But she — she had loved, and she felt in that 

time 



6^ 

That love had but slaughtered itself by its 

crime. 
On love though she hung and to man though 

she prayed, 
That love she had tortured, that man she 

betrayed. 

XVII. 
He sat all unheeding, and if she was heard, 
His lips never parted, his arms never stirred 
From their desolate folding above the dark 

breast. 
But ever more tightly, more firmly, were 

pressed ; 
And he waited for words and for prayers, 

while her woe 
Seemed slowly subsiding, so lessened its show. 
But the nun, starting forth from the gloom 

with a cry. 
Shook his manhood — " O, husband, be quick, 

ere she die ! " 
He looked ; o'er that face like a fast flying 

cloud 
A shadow had passed : and his stern spirit 

bowed. 
Quick parted his arms and as quick to his 

breast 



69 

He gathered that form swiftly sinking to rest, 
And to rest at his feet — unforgiven. Not vain 
Her hope of man's mercy to womanhood's 
pain. 

XVHl. 

*' O, Edith, my loved, my forgiven, my wife, 
But tarry a space on the confines of life — 
But speak to me — say that, my coldness for- 
given, 
You wish that our souls be united in Heaven !" 
A smile flitted o'er the pale face — in the eyes 
That had stolen their blue from the fair sum- 
mer skies 
Shone the gleam of a joy not of earth — 'twas 

the soul 
Sent back from the bright world — sent back 

to the goal. 
Her lips murmured " Husband ! " but, ere on 

the bed 
He laid down his darling, his Edith was dead. 
Yes ; the sighs and the sobbings, they now 

had passed o'er, 
And the echo had died on the echoless shore. 
They heard the sough of the wings of Death, 
As the angel came on the evening's breath ; 



70 

They heard the music of worlds above 
Move to the measure of Godlike love ; 
And they thought they heard, as the sash they 

threw 
Wide to the starlight and the dew, 
A voice on the still and the startled air — 
The spirits' hymn to the mourner there. 

XIX. 

" Oh ! weep not for me, when my tomb you 

see, 
For my soul from the bonds of sin is free ; 
And fresh from a husband's sweet embrace 
I wing my way to my Maker's face. 
Forgiveness of man and the mercy of God 
Shall hallow and freshen the sinner's sod ; 
What death hath brought no life could bring, 
Hail to mortality's kindly king ! 
He sends me before, to prepare for thee 
A home in the depths of eternity. 
And the changing year, with its cycle bright, 
Shall bring by day and shall nurse by night 
Sweet hope ; till up from the mystery 
Of thy soul's unwritten history 
Shall come prophetic voices, and their song 
Shall be of worlds where naught that is is 

wron^." 



THE BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW 

Part IV. 
NUNC DIMITTIS. 

1. 
*' There are sins to be forgiven 

Ere there breaks another day, 
Souls there are to wend to heaven 

By the selfsame way. 

Hear my latest prayer, I pray, 
And when he is dying — dying — 

Hither send for me ; 
Ere the morning breeze is sighing, 

I would with him be. 
And if he shall ask thee whom 

Thou art calling to his side. 
Say the sister of the tomb 

Who attended on his bride." 
Grey hairs were on the speaker's head ; 
From dark grey eyes her tears were shed, 
But in those eyes still shone the rays 
Of younger hopes and brighter days. 



72 

Long years had passed since Nevylle's wife 
Had closed her eyes on sin and life ; 
And death had come once more, to take 
The heart which would, but could not break. 
For, when beneath the sod, his mind 
And heart to Edith grew more kind ; 
And in that hour a subtle bliss 
Had mingled with his bitterness ; 
For she, the loving wife though frail, 
Now wrapped in death's all-sacred veil, 
Had died as one who sins should die — 
With aching heart and hopeful eye — 
And when he forgave her he fondly forgave 
Nor cherished aversion to brood o'er her grave, 

n. 

The sister, to whom the grey sister was speak- 
ing, 
Is now in the streets and her pathway is 

seeking, 
Along to the home of the husband, now low 
Down the hill-side of life on his journey of 

woe. 
At length she is sitting and holding the hand 
Of the slumbering husband. How slowly 
the sand 



73 

In hour-glass runs ! But he wakes and he 

seeks 
For something he hath not, and faintly he 
speaks. 

III. 
" Turn the light lower — rake the fire down — 
Cease from thy watching and thy care a 
while — 
Hand me your casket — leave me now, alone 
To learn the last of woman and her wile ! 
Nay, I shall need thee not ; close fast the door 
And do not come until you hear my voice. 
While the weird shadows fall along the floor, 
I pluck thy secret, casket — not from choice, 
But the necessity of rounding life 

With the full knowledge of another's sin. 
Through younger years I feared the bitter 
strife. 
But now no lover — husband — judge — be- 
gin ! 
And these slight clasps her lily hands have 
pressed 
And to their frailty trusted.^ Well, more 
frail 
The very ties which bound her woman's 
breast — 



74 

I tempt these, Edith — and like thee they 
fail ! " 
He spake, and, speaking, burst the slender 

bands, 
More softly pliant to her softer hands ; 
And found within the casket, treasured there. 
The slightest gifts which claim a woman's care. 
Love's first, fond mementoes, — the flower he 

stole 
To speak in its beautiful language his soul — 
The bud which he gave, and the gift she re- 
ceived — 
The knot which he tied, and symbol be- 
lieved — 
The lightest of lines drawn by love's ready 

pen 
Comes back to his soul, like an echo again 
Coming back from the cavernous rocks of the 

past. 
Just reaching his ear — echo latest and last 
Of the voice of his youth, given thus to his 

age- 
Yet time hath not made it the voice of the 

sage ! 
Each flower, consigned to that mystical cript, 
Preserved ; though forever the honey be sipped, 



75 

All there ! And the portrait her bosom had 

worn, 
While yet she had dreamed of its minature 

born 
From her womb — yes, that too — she had left 

him, to tell 
She naught from his heaven took forth to her 

hell, 
Save the love which had gone with her down 

to her grave. 
She had left each fond token that ever could 

save 
From her barren existence one moment of 

sorrow, 
And cancelled the past while she shrank from 

the morrow. 

IV. 

He pauses sadly, while considering o'er. 
The hopes, the dreams, the days, that are no 

more ; 
And, as he lifts them, softly he lays down 
Each precious relic of love's broken crown. 
And oft he heaves a sudden, pent up sigh, 
When bounds his heart or lights his aged eye, 
Beholding one of those neglected things 



76 

To which a sentiment so often clings ; 

And yet — so slight they seem — he doubts the 

fair 
E'er read the half of what was written there. 
In the rose which we give to the loved one is 
oft 
A beauty by all who behold it descried ; 
And, pleased by the surface of leaves folded 
soft, 
Few guess at the writing that's folded inside. 
Thus, under the rose leaves a secret may lie 
Safe hid till the bud to a blossom has 
blown ; 
But breathe on its tissue the breath of a sigh, 
And unfolding its leaves it will answer our 
moan. 
She rightly read them, and her woman's breast 
Accepted in them all the secret rest ; 
And sympathetic tears brought forth anew 
The treasured thought that shone transparent 

through 
Some bit of ribbon or a faded leaf, 
While love enjoyed the rapture of its grief, 
But now he starts and shrieks as if in pain 
To see a glove that crumpled long hath lain 
Within the casket. On his heart its mate 



77 

Lay years ago and there hath lain of late. 
She gave it him upon the night when, bold, 
His love leaped up — when glances, words, all 

told 
The conquest finished — when he bowed his 

knee 
And life in woman's bondsman breathed more 

free. 
Beneath are packets and the last he takes. 
But falters, trembles ere the seal he breaks. 
" This womanhood's repentance, like her 

crime. 
The child conceived by circumstance or time, 
Not labored long but springing from the womb 
Of sin spontaneous, the babe of gloom ! 
And gloom a goodly heritage hath left 
The lines of all their circumstance bereft ! 
The writer, gone — the reader soon shall be 
A mould'ring mass, a soulless entity — 
Yet, Edith, I have loved thee all these years 
And reckoned flying time by falling tears ! " 

V. 

Is manhood's self not graced by sudden tears, 
That sweeten property of purer years ? 
When shocks have blunted sense against the 
woes 



78 1 

At which our first bright, fleeting tear drop ; 

flows, 1 

Doth time deny that natural relief 1 
To all our deeper and more noble grief ? 

Nay, tears in man have all the grateful bloom j 

Which sanctifies a sorrow or a tomb ! i 
And wept the husband as his dark eye traced 

The wandering words, swift written, half | 

erased " * 
By tear drops which, though years ago they 

dried, i 

Still haunt the husband, still accuse the bride, i 

VI. I 

" I feared that thou wouldst break my heart — 

My heart is broken ; I depart ; 

From thee ; I fly — I know not where — 1 

To deeper pain, more dark despair. ' 

O would my breaking heart might cry ^ ; 

' Thou bad'st me break, with thee I die ! ' . 
It can not. God may comfort thee ; 
But, husband, who can comfort me ? 

Behold my story and thy soul ] 

Shall soon its bitter sense have read ; j 
My life hath burst my love's control 

Or else I were not doomed, but dead." 



79 

VII. 

There fell from the packet a letter — it lay 
At his feet in the fire-light's fanciful play, 
Chequered o'er by both crimson and shadow. 

E'en so 
Her young life's bright promise contrasted 

the woe 
That was doubtless there written. He raises 

it slow, 
But he starts, and the eye which disease 

could not rob 
Of its fire, now flashes ; his arteries throb 
As when he refused the first prayer of the nun, 
And gave to remorse what remorse had un- 
done ; 
And such, on that night, was the voice of his 

pain 
As agony calls to his lips once again. 

VIII. 

" That writing is man's ! And can Edith have 

sought 
To show me the means by which ruin was 

wrought ? 
Could she ask me, or wish me to gaze on the 

page 



8o 

Whose every stain must a torture enrage 
To a maddening, desperate feeling of hate ; 
For her, for myself, for my vengeance, too 

late ? 
And a cursed desire of crime, on my head, 
Which, spared me when living, may damn me 

when dead ? 
And must I know that God denies the grace 
To me, He gave to all ! The serpent's race 
I may not crush, and yet he drew the sword 
Of quenchless fire, to thwart my last accord ; 
And bar mine entrance to that cherished home 
Of all, the Past ; and turned me forth to roam 
A pensioner upon the future's barren plain. 
Seek where I will, no Eden blooms again ; 
And if I find a flow'r, 'tis not as fair 
As was the poorest weed I counted there !" 

IX. 

And Nevylle long in deepest doubt remains, 
While doubt upon conviction slowly gains; 
And yet he thinks he knows the letters' form. 
They seem familiar. When his youth was 

warm. 
He might have written thus. The lines are 

his! 



A letter to his first love ? That it is ! 
He tears the letter from its winding sheet — 
That letter never sent ? Emotions meet, 
And meet contending, in his troubled soul ; 
Their surges, starting, widen o'er the whole 
Broad ocean of his thought. With trembling 

frame 
He stands, no longer his the right to blame. 
That letter, full of love's first, bitter smart, 
The frenzied, final effort of his heart 
To join the bands which woman's tongue un- 
tied. 
Which bound a plighted other for his bride, 
Had asked an explanation, ne'er received ; 
And while it never reached her, he believed 
A lying lip, whose poisoned breath had made 
His life a dark one, e'er it was betrayed. 
" He ne'er could love another, though a bride 
Might sit in after years his form beside " — 
" He could not love again ; his love was dead. 
Distasteful, moulded " — " life was over-fed 
With loving." Well might words like these 
Have helped suspicion to the full disease 
Of her frail heart, which after-life had proved 
Accursed in one thing — that is wholly loved ! 
He bowed his head and sank within his chair, 
6 



82 

And ran his trembling fingers through his hair. 
He sobbed in deeper grief than till that time 
He ever felt. Why wonder at the crime 
Those words created in a breast whose all 
Seemed given over to a foreign thrall ? 

X. 

"And yet how sweetly, ere her death, 
She meekly and imchiding prayed ; 
And with her latest angel-breath 

Blessed him who chiefly had betrayed ! 
And, when her voice refused its tone, 
What blessings spoke her glance alone ! 
Oh ! Edith, from thy brighter sphere 
Look down, and soothe mine anguish here." 
Ah ! those whom we most in our life have 

condemned. 
Chid, censured and blamed, and when dy- 
ing, contemned. 
Are those whom we seek, when too late, to 

enshrine 
In that crypt of our spirit most truly divine. 
A thousand excuses for each of their acts 
Start up from the mystical record of facts ; 
And who shall say that, far above. 
No angel whispers our words of love 



«3 

To those who are waiting within the bright 

gates 
With love which increases as still it awaits ? 
That unhappy letter, so fatal to all — 
To her whom he lost and to her in whose fall 
It played such a terrible, murderous part — 
To the queen of his youth and the wife of 

his heart — 
He flings to the fire. But, deeply within, 
The flame of a fearful remembrance of sin 
Is burning, more fierce than the flame of the 

coal — 
It blisters his brain and it enters his soul. 
Then a sigh rises soft, from behind, to his ears 
And he turns when surprise has arrested his 

tears. 
'Tis a nun. Mute and motionless, gazing she 

stands 
And she points to the sheet which he cast 

from his hands : 
As her deep, dark grey eyes seem to pierce 

through the veil 
He shrinks from the presence and feels he is 

palts. 
And the gaudy flame with its crimson lip 
Kisses the letter's rosy tip, 



84 

And, ling'ring along the dainty edge, 

Inserts 'twixt the folds its crimson wedge ; 

Then burst in a joyous spire away. 

To turn again in its phantom play 

Back to the words of love, that there 

Are cast to its kind, confiding care ; 

But his eyes and his heart are there alone 

With the few soft words which are Edith's 

own. 
The tender confidant still pursues 
The chase of a love which it would not lose ; 
And hunts from its lair each hidden word. 
Or mind, or pulse, or tear that stirred. 
It lights each stroke of the rapid pen 
To fire and to flame again ; 
It kisses the words that his lips have kissed ; 
It hisses the traces of tears, till mist 
Like incense rises from the leaves ; 
It gladly drinks what deepest grieves. 
And all is now a livid mass. 
Turning aside like molten glass 
From the heat which scorches anew. And 

still, 
With a blist'ring grasp and horrid will, 
The element wages unequal fight 
'Gainst a foe so frail and a prey so slight ; 



«5 

And then, with the start of a frighted faun, 
The words, the note and flame are gone. 
The blackness spread and the ashes come — 
The writing of ruin is gathered home ! 

XL 

One sob from the lips which the church-craft 

had sealed 
Burst forth, deep and low ; and that one sob 

revealed 
The woman to him who had loved her in years 
When love in its song had no discord of tears. 
He turned to address her and reached out 

his hand. 
Could the bride of the church obey that de- 
mand ? 
Ah, no ! for a moment she gave it, then broke 
From his grasp and retreated a space as he 

spoke. 
" Oh ! phantom of that one indefinite thought 
Which died from my life but whose impress 

was caught 
Ere my jubilant soul in its bright op'ning days 
Conceived of the grand and the luminous rays 
God made to burst from it in manhood, why 

now 



86 

Repent at my grave of thy falsified vow ? 

Canst thou call up my years from the grave 
where they lie ? 

If thy staff burst the rock, lo ! the river is 
dry; 

The flood hath escaped and hath sank in the 
sand, 

Nor gladdened the thirsty, nor watered the 
land." 

The quivering lips of the nun were com- 
pressed 

And something of anguish their folding con- 
fessed : — 

" Thy years ? let them lie where my love long 
hath lain ; 

If the river were opened its flowing were vain ; 

The rays of thy soul still illumine my life 

But thy heart is entombed with the dust of 
thy wife. 

What love I have left, my religion may claim. 

But ne'er a repentance is linked with thy 
name; 

No vows have I broken and one have I kept 

In pain, while I watched, and in peace, while 
I slept; 

'Tis that which devoted to thee all my love 

Save that which I owe to One Other, above !" 



87 
XII. 

" Deceive not the dying," was Nevylle's reply, 
" Nor win from my lips at the price of a lie 
A blessing which God shall return on thy 

head 
A curse more abhorred than the curse of the 

dead. 
If true thou hast been, then, oh ! loved of my 

youth, 
Explain all the falsehood accepted for truth ; 
But, lost one, deceive not the heart of the 

dying. 
Nor poison mine ear with the breath of thy 

lying." 

XIII. 

The sister drew her figure proudly high ; 

Proud curled her lip and flashed her angry 
eye. 

" I come not as one whom your words can 
degrade ; 

I come not to tell how my youth was be- 
trayed ; 

I come not as one for forgiveness to bow : 

But, clothed in the might of my creed and my 
vow, 



88 

With the seal of the mother-saint stamped on 
my brow, 

I tell thee thy first love was true to thee. Now 

Can thy cold heart suspect my intent to de- 
ceive ?" 

Lord Nevylle bowed low, as he said, " I be- 
lieve ; 

And belief carries with it repentance and 
sorrow. 

Thy vengeance shall come with the dawning 
to-morrow !" 

XIV. 

Quick sprang the tears to that grey sister's 

eye. 
She strove to speak but could no more than 

try; 
She hurried from the room and came no more 
Until the sinking of her heart was o'er, 
Lest her heart should break vows long re- 
corded above 
And the close of her life know one hour of 

love. 
But when again to the room she hied. 
To watch the wash of the ebbing tide 
Of life, as it drifted away in the sea 



89 

Of a vague and dismal mystery, 

She caught his voice as the door she passed- 

" Edith, darling, I come at last — 

" I come !" and, as he spake, the breath 

All softly trembled into death. 

XV. 

Oh ! pow'r of woman, you conceal 
The very woes you cannot heal ; 
For while the life shone in his eye 
The nun all motionless stood by, 
Whate'er she wished to feel or felt, 
Within her heart a secret dwelt. 
No motion told she longed to clasp. 
His tortured form in one warm grasp. 
No tear above his couch was shed 
To tell the heart's old love not dead; 
She would not take one thought away 
From wedded wife or senseless clay, 
Although to glad her aching heart, 
Nor steal however small a part 
Of time, from mem'ry ; for she felt 
That on his wife each feeling dwelt — 
And rightly dwelt — forgiving still, 
With new forgiveness, every ill. 
She knew his thoughts were sacred then 



9° 

To her who was not — but had been ! 
And if her accents shook at times, 
'Twas like the jar of holy chimes, 
Tuned to song more grand than love ; 
Of something living from above. 
Not dying here. But when his breast 
Had ceased to heave and was at rest, 
She bowed her o'er his senseless form 
And printed one long kiss and warm 
On those beloved lips, whose dew 
From warmth to love's last coldness grew. 



ERRATA 



Page 9, line 17, for " IV hen' youth," read " When 
youth." 

Page 30, line 21, for "from time to tide" read "from 
him to hide." 

Page 73, line 5, for " Hand me yotc7' casket," read 
" Hand me iw/ casket." 

Page 74, line 9, for " and symbol believed," read 
" and its symbol believed." 



SiriH ^ 



THE BRIDE 



OF THE 





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